


Catch in Thine Throat, O Mendful Words

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, College, Developing Relationship, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, all that goode gaye shite, descriptions of off-screen sex, each chapter has such a different tone don't @ me, just being best friends, like cw thoughts of self harm but not following through obvs, pretty major depression in that last chapter, requited, roommates to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Matt Murdock hates Franklin Nelson for months. Then, he hears him speak, really speak, and falls in love.(Or, me amalgamating canon but making them gay)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't explain this. I needed writing practice. Have it. (Leave a comment, leave a kudo, whatever please thee.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt maybe starts to feel a little something.

He smelled like cheetos.

He ate cheetos when he was stressed and it was finals season. Ergo, he smelled like cheetos.

Matt, on the other hand, wasn't the biggest fan of cheetos. There was something too powdery about the cheese, something too preserved about the chip, something that didn't sound quite like real food when it met teeth. More to the point, the smell of cheetos usually meant that _he_ was close so Matt had developed some pavlovian response that pulled his body in the exact opposite direction of the smell.

But if there was something that Matt had come to learn, it's that Franklin Nelson was sort of inevitable.

On top of being his roommate for the foreseeable future, it appeared that Franklin had somehow gotten the notion that he and Matt were actual friends. He would say hello in the hallways, offer to lead Matt to classes they had together, invite Matt to the exclusive parties that Franklin was just "headed to anyways." It's not that Matt didn't appreciate the gesture, but by now, they had been living together for almost an entire semester and should be well aware of Matt's disinterest in these cordialities.

And sure, it's not like Matt had ever _told_ Franklin in so many words that these loud parties with dozens of sweating, moving bodies with the acrid breath of alcohol and bile and greasy food wasn't the most pleasant sensory experience for him, but there were other ways of communication. And sure, Matt always followed along, but we always sighed and made a dramatic stink about it on the way. Maybe Matt was being too subtle. 

Still, Matt figured, it was a little rude of Franklin to leave his blind roommate stranded amongst strangers while he went off to make out with some classmate he hardly knew. And Franklin did often found Matt tongue deep in some anonymous body to tell him he wouldn't be back until the next morning, but he would always come to the wrong conclusion. Matt wasn’t ever “having a good time,” only drowning out the rest of the party that was far too much. It should have been _obvious_.

Because even if they weren't necessarily _friends_ , they'd been living together for nearly a whole semester and Franklin should have _known_ Matt by now.

Franklin was his antithesis; Franklin was clumsy where Matt was calculated, indulgent where Matt was disciplined, loud where Matt was quiet, open where Matt was closed, happy and easy-going while Matt was…

Anyway.

He hated Franklin with a passion. The smell of artificial flavouring whittled away at Matt’s patience like a jackhammer. He could smell the cheetos even through the toothpaste, the wretched dust having made a home somewhere deep below Franklin’s esophagus, down in his gut. He smelled it with every breath that Franklin took, every wobbly exhale that turned into a deafening snore. He smelled it as the breath traveled the width of their beds, four feet apart, and traveled to his face.

Finally, Matt grabbed at his white cane where it rested on his bedside table, unfolded it primly, and started poking at Franklin's heavy, limp form.

"Franklin!" he hissed through the darkness. "Wake up, Foghorn! You're snoring again!"

The man clamoured awake, heart rate spiking the instant he realized he wasn’t sleeping. Franklin fumbled, and he seemed to always be fumbling, into a sitting position. "Wha- who- oh, Matt," Franklin said as he became aware of his surroundings.

"You snore like a storm, I swear to God," Matt told him for the umpteenth time. There was some real despair when he said it because while Matt had never been one for sleeping easy, it was better when the noise was all outside rather than blaring straight into his ear. 

"Shit, sorry." Franklin yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Do you want me to sleep at Brad's again? It's only 2am, he might still be up."

Brad lived in the single across the hall and as a result, did whatever he wanted. He was, in fact, awake, on his laptop, typing furiously and drinking from a heavy soda can. Brad liked Franklin. The guy would never admit it to anyone, but Matt could hear it in every hopeful greeting he threw Franklin's way, every time he'd jokingly offer for Foggy to take the bed with him. Matt wasn't the biggest fan of Brad, either.

"No, no. It's okay. God, I should be used to it by now." Matt sunk back into his sheets and buried his head between his pillows.

Franklin sighed heavily, laced with some mean emotion that remained unvocalized. "Hey, I'll stay up for a bit, work on my thesis for Civ. Lit. or something. Let you fall asleep first." He was already shuffling out of bed and scrambling for his notebook in his backpack. There was a mess inside: candy wrappers, soda cans, crumpled papers. All of that noise shuffling around like goddamn firecrackers at 2 in the morning.

"You don't have to." Matt gritted out. He had to match politeness with politeness.

"No, it's fine. I have to finish this for next Monday anyway." Franklin let out a longsuffering sigh. Maybe there was a little resentment, maybe it was resignation. It made something twinge in Matt’s frustrated heart. Guilt, maybe.

"Sorry."

"Just go to sleep, man," Franklin told him, a little icily. Matt frowned. His roommate was at his desk now, already writing notes with a cheap plastic pen. Matt was already yawning to the familiar sound, much milder than Franklin’s snoring. If Matt thought about it for a second, he would know how unfair he was being. For the moment, though, Franklin was nothing but inelegant and pungent with sleep and fried oil. For the moment, Matt was tired.

Matt was so tired that he was already halfway asleep to the sounds of a pen on paper and the smell of Franklin and ink. Matt thought of something big and loud and all-encompassing.

"Night, Foghorn."

There was a sigh, and Matt was asleep.

-

They didn't have any classes together the next day. Franklin was usually on the other side of campus. Today, however, he was in the auditorium just below Matt. There were debates going on, the final presentation for a justice theories class by the sound of it. Matt was attending an optional seminar for a class that he was acing anyways, tuning vaguely in and out to the discussion in the other room. He might have used what was being said in the other room to supplement his own discussion. Not necessarily cheating, but his program was full of some very smart people who made very compelling points.

Then, it was Franklin's turn. Matt tuned in as the other man stepped up to the podium, a little awkwardly in his leather shoes which were a size too big. He heard Franklin cough into his palm.

"Alright," Dr. Langford announced easily. "Next issue: the place of retributive violence in the criminal justice context. Up for debate: state sanctioned retributive violence is a necessity for the cohesion and consistency of criminal justice function in America. Priya, you have the supporting stance, and Franklin, you're opposition. Alright, children, you have the floor."

Matt loved to listen to intelligent people speak, and Priya was intelligent. She made a few good points about violence in the American legal context, its history with retributive rhetoric and religion, the use of violence as a deterrent. The growing place of the police as an executive arm of the law. A detailed argument if there ever was one. Matt reveled in that selfsure voice and the occasional flipping of her note cards.

He almost felt bad for Franklin. Matt had been to a few classes with him, and he was usually quite quiet. He spoke when he had to, and his points were always insightful and inquisitive, but never revolutionary. In all honesty, Matt remembered Franklin more from the meals they shared, the outings they went on, the grocery shopping they did together. He was one to talk on and on, sharing stories. He was one to go on endlessly about people and empathy and love and a slew of other banalities. He talked without purpose, bumbling and meandering around a point that would disappear before it ever got the chance to truly solidify. Matt never got a true gauge of Franklin's intelligence, but he could’t imagine anything spectacular.

He had never heard Franklin debate. By the sound of it, Matt had been wrong. The half-made points that Franklin would always be in the process of making were practice, Matt realized. Following lines of thought to several possible conclusions before Franklin even thought to give any of them voice. Pinning them to his brain, letting the rest fall away.

Because as much as Priya had made some very fine points about the essential place of violence, hearkening both the emotion-based arguments and pedantic definitions arguing that Matt had grown used to hearing from his classmates, Franklin was something else. He argued for the future, as if he had a vision, appealing to American values like freedom, calling upon his colleagues, as _visionaries_ , to look past assumptions and be open to the possibility of non-violence. It was moving, almost poetic.

And it wasn't just the opening. The cross examinations, too, were phenomenal. Franklin was the perfect mix of gentleman and combatant. He strung together theory and case law in an intricate and empathetic tapestry. Priya, sharp as a wit, countered with needles and shears of her own. Together, they weaved an intimate knowledge of American history, current legal issues, and cultural understanding. Two very intelligent people arguing, back and forth. By their tone, you'd assume it was mere banter. By their words, you'd know better. It left Matt gaping a little. Had Franklin always been this _capable_?

The debate itself was close, but Franklin won out in the end. Matt found himself being a little proud, even though he didn't have any claim over the other man.

The debaters shook hands at the end of it, thanking each other for the discussion, before leaving the stage.

Students shuffled around Matt as the professor dismissed them. Matt was careful to sling his bag just so such that it covered his crotch.

-

Matt had another lecture to attend before his day ended, and it went by without much incident. He chatted with the professor and had a short discussion with his casual acquaintances, but he was more than eager to get back to his dorm. He needed time to consider some new revelations.

A whole 3 hour lecture later, Matt found his way home. Except he couldn't go in because he just heard Franklin on the other side of the door. Hell, he wouldn't have been surprised if the entire floor heard him.

"Shh, shh!" The voice of Priya laughed as she gave Franklin a playful slap somewhere, maybe his thigh. "Everyone's going to hear you!" It was muffled. She was talking into his skin.

"Shut me up, then," Franklin replied. It's challenging and flirtatious in a way Matt had never experienced this close. A few inches of door, a few feet of air between Matt and Franklin's naked skin. Matt made his way slowly to the lounge downstairs, haunted. He kept listening in.

Priya answered by kissing Franklin and continued her business with her hand. It did shut him up, but only for a few seconds before he moaned into her mouth. Matt was almost at the elevator now. He was sweating.

"You're so loud! You're like a foghorn!" Priya laughed again and hitched Franklin's knee up so she could get a better angle.

Matt jealously considered this musing because to be fair, Matt had thought it first. 

"Hey, Matt," Brad greeted as the elevator doors opened up. The other man stepped out and clapped Matt on the back. Matt felt very disoriented.

"Hey, Brad." Matt tried to smile, his attention refusing to drift from his own dorm.

"Sorry, I'll try harder," Franklin panted. Matt licked his lips. Two more doors ‘til the lounge.

"No, it's cute. People might think I'm better at this than I actually am. It's great advertising." She kissed him again and he laughed into her mouth. Intimate. Tender. Not for him.

"Well, I think you're doing a- a really good job," Franklin stuttered. Then, a moment later, "God, do _that_ again. Keep doing that. Don't stop. Keep going forever."

"If only you were this coherent during the debate," she teased. "I might have stood a chance."

"You were great. Are great. Oh my God."

"Alright, I'm going to sit on you now."

"Please, be my guest," Franklin choked out.

It took an alarming amount of time for them to finally be done. They took water breaks. They brought snacks to Franklin's bed. For a horrific moment, Franklin sat down, presumably naked, on Matt's bed before Priya dragged him on top of her. The entire time, Matt had a book open on his lap and never flipped a page.

Matt started to make his way back when they started shifting away from each other. He even heard Franklin thank her, like a sap.

Matt reached to open the door a second after Priya did and was met with the rank sex musk in his dorm. It hit him like a train, thick and moist, and Matt was dizzy from it.

"Oh, hey," the voice said, a certain satisfied heat on her skin. "You must be Matt. I'm Priya. Frankie’s friend. Have a nice day, I guess." She was careful not to touch him as she slid out of their room.

Matt slumped down on his bed.

"Who was that?" Matt asked unhappily. Even Matt's sheets smelled like them. Everything about the whole situation was entirely annoying.

"Priya. From my afternoon class today," Franklin explained. He also went to open the window, because he was at least that considerate. Matt savoured the cold, fresh air as it displaced the ruined air in the dorm. "She's nice."

"I bet," he grumbled into the hand he was scrubbing over his face.

"You'd like her." Matt doubted it. He tended not to like Franklin's friends, much less his choices for romantic partners. There was something irritating about them. Almost more than the things that were irritating about Franklin. "She's really smart. Like you."

"You had that debate today, didn't you?" Matt wanted to change the subject. He didn't want to think about Franklin thinking he was smart.

"Yeah, she was my partner actually," Franklin stated, open and happy. He neatened up his desk slightly, shuffling some objects around and fishing for his laptop.

"How'd it go?" Matt asked, shuffling through his own bag for his study equipment. He also pulled out a can of Red Bull that he had gotten from the vending machine on his way up. He didn't drink Red Bull, but he had misremembered the code for the granola bars. Might as well go to someone who would appreciate it.

"I won, actually! I'm kind of surprised because I didn't take that many notes for the class." Which was. Illuminating. Even Matt had to admit how amazing that was. He would never vocalize how amazing that was.

He handed Franklin the can.

"Congratulations, Franklin."

"Thanks, Matty." Matt could hear his roommate smiling. "Holy shit, is that the time? Where were you for the past two hours?"

"I was in the lounge. I came up after class, but you seemed like you were having a good time, so I headed down." Matt shrugged, casual as he could, despite feeling stiff and icy all over. "I figured two hours was enough time." Actually, Matt had thought half that was plenty, but apparently, he had underestimated Franklin's stamina. Matt shivered, mouth feeling dry.

"Sorry, man. I'll try to text you these things so you're prepared."

"Thanks, _Foghorn_ ," Matt said, just to be a little bitchy.

"How much did you hear?" Matt felt Franklin heat up and it vindicated something in Matt. Sure, it was a small penance for making Matt suffer two whole hours of his having fun, but Matt would take what he could get.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt gets a best friend, might fall in love with him shortly after.

Matt and Franklin had precisely one debate together. On the last day of the exam session. A mock trial, presented to a group of random classmates and Professor Terrance as acting judge. It was rotten luck, having to stay for classes that late into December. Most people around them had already gone back home for the holidays and as a result, campus was cold and empty.

Franklin had offered to help Matt through his arguments. They were on opposing sides, but both of them agreed that it would strengthen both of their projects if they had at least discussed the other side with their debate partner. Matt had initially been looking forward to getting to act smug and wipe the floor with his dull roommate, but that was months ago. Back when they had first received the assignment, it seemed like a sure thing. Now, his confidence was wavering.

“Okay,” Franklin ventured, scribbling furiously in his notes. “So if I make the point that the defendant in this hypothetical scenario would have known about the murder at least five days before the alleged cookout because there’s no way to corroborate the alibi-”

“I can just object and say it’s circumstantial evidence,” Matt rebutted, tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it just before it hit his face.

“Okay, okay, but on the chance that the mock jury still hears what I say and they believe me-”

“Isn’t that too meta?” questioned Matt, adrenaline creeping into his veins. “We’re supposed to win with our arguments, not presentation.” Matt said the words, but he rolled the idea around in his mind. Presentation.

“That’s the court, though. You play a role, and what’s said is just as important as what isn’t said. It’s about controlling every aspect of the space,” Franklin explained. His pen stopped moving and he let out a tired sigh. “It’s also about how you breathe, how you walk, what points are made between the silences and the beats. The moment the control slips from you, you lose the argument.”

Matt stopped throwing the ball. It was definitely an _advanced_ point to be made. “What makes you say that?”

Franklin hummed and rested his forehead on the desk. His skull landed on the wood with a soft thud. “Law’s been a tradition in my family for a while. My mom was sort of adamant about what kind of person I should be.”

“Oh.” Matt hadn’t considered that Franklin’s family life wasn’t all that free. Matt had been told many times that Franklin had a lot of family, and that he grew up within a certain enviable tax bracket. He had shared the funnier anecdotes, the moments where their affluence served as entertainment; moments sneaking into his mother’s refined adult parties in his denim shorts as a child and getting scolded, making friends with a kid from a few towns over in summer camp, coming home with a flower crown and getting scolded, getting gum stuck in his hair after getting an expensive haircut and getting scol- oh. Matt had been an idiot.

“It’s not a big deal. I’m just going to graduate and go into corporate like my mom wants so that she’ll keep paying my dad and my sister can also get into a good school.”

“Would she really do that? Stop sending money just because you choose to do something she doesn’t like?” Matt asked, awed. Matt hadn’t had parents in a long while, much less rich ones who made these ultimatums. But, he had a feeling that this wasn’t a normal way to be raised.

“Well, Candace isn’t her daughter. Really, she’s paying my dad for me to get through law school and the divorce settlement is pretty rock solid. We’ve been putting everything we can in a separate fund for my sister. My dad’s side aren’t as well off, and I’ve got cousins to think about, too. Auntie Geordie needs money for chemo, and my cousin Kiane might have asthma, and I don’t know. My mom’s been a huge source of income. There’s a reason I’m here instead of Harvard. It’s a lot to juggle, but we have to manage somehow, you know?” There were many things that hit Matt at this sentiment. One of these was that Franklin could have gone to Harvard. Then, everything else hit him, too.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” consoled Matt, limply. “Sounds hard." Had having a family always meant this much responsibility? He had only been a kid when his dad had died, and he couldn’t remember this much… complexity.

“It’s okay. It could be worse. At least this way, I’m more or less guaranteed a job I know I can be semi-decent at, and maybe earn enough money to help everyone out in, like, five or six years.” Foggy shrugged and shoved another cheeto into his mouth. It was still gross, but less so now. The crunch was almost appealing.

“Is it what you want to be doing?” Matt asked, genuinely curious.

Franklin was quiet for a long moment. “Matt, can I be honest for a second?” came a shy whisper.

“Of course.”

“I don’t. I don’t want to be making a lot of money. I just want to help people. I know that wanting to ‘help people’ limits my options, but at the end of the day, money doesn’t motivate me the same way people do.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” Matt stated, mulling it over. He had never talked to Franklin like this. Not about things that mattered.

“What about you?”

“I… I have some similar goals, I think.” Matt tasted the words on his tongue, kept them suspended there, right at his lips. He tried to get used to the idea that he and his roommate had something in common. “I was never rich, so I don’t mind if I never become that. My dad was a boxer, and I never really knew my mom. I guess my dad made me work really hard to get educated. Do something better than punching people to get paid. So I guess I want to make him proud, but if I could help people along the way, it’d be nice.”

“Was?” his roommate asked, soft and curious. Cautious.

“He died a few years ago. It’s whatever.” Matt didn’t want to be pitied. He resented the idea more than anything.

“Sorry to hear that, man."

Matt shrugged.

"Hey, wanna bet Professor Terry's going to clap when I deliver this closer?" joked Franklin, lightly, after a moment of contemplation. “We can put chores on the wager.” It was nice not to have to tell him to drop the subject. Matt would get to it later. When and if he was ready.

"You'd just lie about it so I'll have to do the dishes anyway," Matt whined gladly.

-

Franklin won the debate. It was infuriating. Among other adjectives. Matt gripped at his cane, sweating under his collar. It had been one thing to hear that voice directed at someone else, when he could secretly root for Franklin and marvel at his meticulous word choice, his calculated arguments. It was quite another to be on the receiving end, where a certain sharp comment would slow Matt’s own tongue, where his mind started slipping and fumbling for the points he had so studiously written down beforehand. Under the pressure of Franklin’s cross-examination, though, the points had transformed into limp and inane things.

Matt waited for his roommate by the door, surrounded by a few colleagues who were also stuck in school late into the year. They talked about the holidays, how mad their families were at their short vacation, congratulated each other on well-presented cases and the like.

Franklin was speaking to the professor instead, like a teacher’s pet. They were having some pleasant chat and Terry was showering Franklin with praises. Franklin was trying to divert the conversation to the reference letter he was trying to obtain. Matt couldn’t help but smile. If he had lost to someone this impressive, perhaps it wasn’t so bad.

“You didn’t have to wait for me, Matt.” Franklin said at last, when the other students had already all gone for the evening. Matt shrugged, for some reason it had just seemed like the thing to do.

“I didn’t want to slip on any ice on my way back.”

“Sure. Keep pretending we aren’t friends. I’ll win you over one of these days.” Franklin took his post at Matt’s side. “I’m offering my elbow, by the way. Since you so dearly need my help getting back home.”

“In my defense, I an very clumsy.” Matt smiled, taking Franklin’s arm.

“So what’s your explanation for losing so hard today?” It came out the perfect mix of teasing and affectionate.

“You hustled me!” accused Matt with a soft smirk to his feet. “I swear I hadn’t heard half the points you made in there! We were supposed to work together so neither of us looked bad.”

“That would be fraternizing.” Franklin told him, matter-of-fact and righteous. He shifted their bodies ever so slightly to avoid a frozen puddle and for a moment, Matt could feel Franklin’s pulse, separated only by centimetres of fabric, in direct contact with his side. “Besides, I really did only come up with them on the spot. You start hearing yourself and you can get ideas off of your ideas.”

“Congratulations, Franklin. You’re a worthy adversary.”

“Shucks. But you have to say that, Matty boy. Otherwise you would have to admit you lost to an unworthy adversary.”

“I would have had a fighting chance if you played fair," Matt laughed. Everything felt light, and the day's chill was invigorating on his skin. "You distracted everyone by being louder than me. You’re a foghorn. Foghorn Nelson.”

“You only started getting quiet when you started losing,” Franklin stated, bumping Matt's shoulder amicably.

Matt shrugged. He had already admitted defeat once tonight, and Franklin had already won. Might as well step off before another imminent loss.

“Fine, point taken. How’s about I get you some celebratory champagne, _Foghorn_?”

“That’s not going to become a legitimate thing, is it?” Foghorn pouted and led the way across campus to the liquor store.

-

It was less of a sparkling champagne, and more of a cheap, hard spirit artificially flavoured like peppermint that had only seemed enticing on sale. They bought three whole bottles. Paired with a plentiful meal of free cafeteria food given to the holiday stragglers by kitchen staff ready to close for the season, it couldn’t have been a better end to the day.

Matt found himself more or less content.

“Hey, Foghorn, Fog-Foggy. Can I call you Foggy?” Matt asked, consonants softened by the late evening and burning mint beverage.

“Sure, Matt-Matty-Matthew.” Foggy sounded as sloshed as Matt felt. Matt liked this better than being drunk at a party, where the sounds and bodies would only disorient him. Now, buzzed and in his own bed, a friend beside him, it was somehow all easier.

“Can I- can I just say, I don’t think I’ve ever- ever really had a best friend before,” he slurred. It took some tries, but he hoped the sentiment was clear.

“Hmm? Why not? You’re a delight.” Foggy said it honestly, like it was the easiest thing in the world to believe. Matt flopped over and rested a hand on Foggy’s chest, feeling his heartbeat covertly with the tips of his fingers. “Is that it? You’ve always had too many friends to have a best one?”

“No, I never really talked to anyone as much as I talked to you. Except maybe my dad. Can your dad be your best friend?”

“Sure can, buddy. Anyone can be your best friend. You’re pretty cool. Someone would be very lucky to have you as a best friend.”

“Do you wanna be my best friend?” Matt asked the other man, face in his pillow, muffled. It felt childish, as if they were in elementary school trading sodas on the playground, making a very serious and permanent pact. But Matt couldn’t stop grinning and frankly, it was embarrassing.

“Of course, Matt!” Foggy sounded genuinely excited. “Let’s be best friends!” Foggy huffed and it eventually evolved into a snicker. Matt could feel the jittering breath travel all over his body. Matt could feel it with his actual hands. Matt was allowed to touch. “We should make each other friendship bracelets and shit like that. I never really got to when I was a kid, but it always seemed so fun.”

Foggy sounded a little sad. A lot regretful. Matt didn’t like that much. Suddenly, he wanted to fill in the gaps of Foggy’s childhood for him. It could be mutualistic because there were parts Matt wanted to fill, too. How ironic it was that the experience of growing up too quickly seemed to be a through line in so many childhoods. In fact, Matt had never met someone who had been allowed to grow and mature and meander into adulthood in due time, like he had read about once upon a time. He had always imagined his scuffed shoes cleaner, even back then. He imagined his clothes not so stained with his father’s blood. Later on, he regretted the loss of his sight and the forced military training for a cause he didn’t understand. The loss of his dad. The knowledge of the depth of the city’s despair.

“I can make you a friendship bracelet. I can’t guarantee it’ll look good, but I’ll make you one. If you really want it,” promised Matt.

“Thanks, buddy,” Foggy said, patting Matt’s hand where it still rested on Foggy’s chest. “Say, should we be drinking water?”

“Oh, for sure,” Matt agreed, shifting his glasses off of his face and closing his eyes.

Several beats passed with nothing but the quiet breathing of two happy souls that winter night. Suddenly, Foggy sat up and stumbled out of the bed. Matt grumbled, missing the comfortable heat.

When Foggy came back, he was holding two glasses of water. He kicked his roommate, who only groaned.

“Matt, drink water,” Foggy demanded. “It’s healthy.”

“What would you know about healthy?” Matt frowned. He reached out, a sloppy hand grappling at Foggy's thigh before finding its way into Foggy’s cargo pant pocket. He pulled out a jumbo-sized candy bar. Carefully, he threw it right at Foggy’s chest.

“How did you know?” Foggy handed Matt the water as the other man sat up. They both drank in long, deep gulpfuls.

“It was more likely than not. I am observant, you know.” He set his glass down at his bedside.

“Good trait for lawyers.”

Matt hummed in agreement and settled farther into his sheets, careful to leave room for Foggy. Foggy, his best friend. Foggy, brilliant litigator. Foggy Nelson, future attorney. Matt wanted to chortle at how funny that sounded. Definitely less professional than Franklin Nelson. Infinitely cuter, though.

He tried not to be too disappointed when Foggy plopped down on his own mattress, a whole four feet away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Foggy crying chapter. I love him and this hurted.

Sometime after the break, when the New York snow was still clinging strong onto the asphalt despite the sun’s heat, Foggy stormed into the dorm and slammed the door. Before Matt could even turn towards his roommate, he could hear Foggy sob into his sheets.

“Foggy? What’s wrong?” Matt asked the shaking figure cautiously.

“I got expelled.” Foggy said it simply between heaving, wet breaths.

“Expelled?!” Matt racked his brain for any reason they would expel Foggy, of all people. “You’re expelled?” Matt tried again when Foggy continued to cry. Maybe Matt was also panicking a little.

“York says I plagiarized a paper! What am I supposed to tell my father?” Foggy wailed into his pillows.

“I don’t know, everything?” Matt supplied. If Foggy just explained everything, his father would have to understand, right? Families ought to support each other, right? Perhaps there had been some mix up. A turn of phrase Foggy had borrowed that pinged the algorithm. A study buddy that he had helped too much in a distinctive written voice. Something.

Foggy just blubbered on, explaining his despair; that he would never cheat, that he had already talked to the authorities. Matt shook his head because there was no way in his mind he could even begin to resolve “Foggy Nelson” with “cheater.”

“Let me go talk to York. He’ll listen to me,” assured Matt. 

And Matt did. And while Professor York had been nothing but admiring towards Matt, he was clearly biased in the exact opposite direction when it came to Foggy. Turned out, though, that York’s disgusting fetishization of Matt’s rise-and-grind life history held no water to his hate of Foggy's opposite upbringing and York’s allegiance to his own ego. It was a shame, too, because Matt was doing exceptionally well in that class.

Still, if he were given the choice between defending Foggy and brown nosing a piece of work like _York_ , Matt knew which way he’d turn every time.

Matt had planned it all. He had alibis ready, he had an explanation. More importantly, he had the truth, which was supplied to him by his own senses and he knew for an unshakeable fact that York had been lying. The offense was fabricated. That was the truth, and the truth always won out in the end. Matt believed that.

Except when Matt stepped into the next class with Foggy in tow, Foggy ended up saving himself more than anything because despite everything, Matt found his own research was just not enough. He was just a student, and York was a tenured professor who had been practicing law since before Matt was even born. 

It took insight (and plain sight, much to Matt's chagrin) to win against him, and Foggy supplied it in droves. The common knowledge of York's medical history, knowledge of his handwriting. Obvious things not easily strung together. (Matt lamented, because he really never could have made the observation that York's stroke had changed his _handwriting_.) A common sense observation to really back York into a corner and get him to admit that he had faked the accusation, the tenured bastard.

And while Matt might have been a little miffed that he hadn’t been the one to swoop in and play hero, he got to witness Foggy again. Foggy fighting for his whole livelihood, brain wired from real fear. And even then, Foggy had been able to take in the evidence.

Matt had to admit it took incredible gall. Facing a professor and showing him up with such tact and courtesy. Points made plainly, points made undeniable. Genius.

He could listen to Foggy argue for hours, Matt decided. He would find a way to do just that. Listen to Foggy work his way around a crowd in a courtroom and charm the judge for good measure. Matt imagined a future for them, maybe a few years down the line. Matt would be a lawyer. He would make his arguments and it wouldn't matter if he fumbled a little or missed something because Foggy would be there to fill in the gaps. They were best friends, and Foggy would be there.

Unfortunately, Matt found it very sexy.

Which is the opposite reaction one ought to have towards a friend and roommate in _law school,_ of all things.

But it’d go away, Matt rationalized. He had been attracted to many people in his life, and none of them had stuck around for long.

-

Except none of them had also been Matt's roommate who he also genuinely liked to hang out with. And none of them mysteriously disappeared Matt's student debt.

And none of the others had fairly frequent sex with a fair amount of people in Matt’s dorm room. And none of them gushed about whoever they're seeing at the moment when the person in question wasn’t Matt. These, frankly, weren’t fair critique, but it was always someone else, someone who didn’t deserve Foggy. Matt tried to keep up with the names. Priya, Marci, Langston, Kirsten, others. Worst of all, for two whole weeks it had been Brad from across the hall. They were insufferable together. Thank God they didn't last long.

-

"I'm unlovable!" Foggy cried, for the dozenth time since Matt had met him. And it had only been a year and a half. You'd think a man would get used to break-ups at some point. Matt could hear Foggy’s tears drop into his whiskey, the soft contact of salty water on the glass. The uncomfortable shift of their leather booth seat. The caterwauling of his friend beside him. 

  


"You're not. You're very lovable. He just wasn't what you were looking for." Matt patted him on the back and sipped from his own glass. He would be an asshole to be relieved that Foggy's relationships never panned out.

"He said I’m too clingy. Am I too clingy, Matt?" Foggy hiccupped. Matt sighed.

"No, Foggy." Then, he thought about it for a moment. "Maybe a little intense? Especially since you have a definite type."

"Do I?" Foggy asked miserably.

"Yes. They're all sharp and dangerous and way too flirty," Matt told him, gently. "And they never want relationships. They're all too young and afraid of commitment."

"But that's not their fault! _We're_ young. _I_ should be afraid of commitment."

"That's stupid. Don't feel bad for wanting what you want." Matt frowned. Loving people shouldn't be penalized. Matt believed that strongly.

"How do you do it? How do you have all these flings without baring your heart out to people? It's awful. I can’t take any more."

Matt cringed because Foggy had it so wrong. Matt was getting his heart ripped out right now. Because he had had a goddamn crush on his roommate for the past _year_.

"I just don't get attached, I guess? Just because you date someone doesn't mean you're thinking of marriage, right?"

"Literally inconceivable."

A thought wriggled its way into Matt's consciousness. A thought he didn't want to have, much less vocalize.

"Do you want to practice?" Aw, fuck. There it was. Matt’s _hope_.

"What do you mean?" Foggy asked darkly, downing the last of his drink.

It was an out. An out Matt should have taken because the opportunity was right there.

"We could platonically date. It'll get you to stop thinking about everything in marriage-or-shambles terms." See, Matt was drunk. He knew it didn’t make sense and his face grew hot for several reasons. "Casual dating practice." Finally, finally, his mouth closed. Foggy was quiet.

"You know what, Matt?” Foggy slurred. “That literally makes no sense but let’s do it. I’m drunk and sad and lonely and I will date you.”

It should have meant something that Matt was okay with that.

“No strings attached,” Foggy continued, slamming his glass down harshly. “And it’ll be great because at the end of it we’ll still be friends.” And maybe Matt entertained the thought that, maybe, it won't end. 

Matt nodded nonsensically. It was a stupid idea and Matt could count at least five ways it could go wrong. He finished off his own drink.

“Sure. Take the lead.”

“Alright, Matt. Let’s do this. Let’s go on a goddamn date and you can give me notes on how awful and unlovable I am.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest as Foggy moved to stand. His exit was blocked by Matt, though, and he just drunkenly flopped onto Matt’s lap.

“Matt,” Foggy whined as he struggled into a sitting position. On the way, he put his hands all over Matt’s lap in a way that was decidedly _not_ painful. “Matt, you have to get up, buddy. We have to go on our weird friend-date,” he said seriously.

Matt obeyed. He was dizzy from a lot of things. Foggy followed just behind him.

“Where are we going, Matt?” Sluggishly, Foggy launched himself onto his friend, leaning on him heavily in his ruined state. Matt’s legs were feeling quite unsteady at the moment.

“I don’t know. What time is it? Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?” Matt stopped outside the door. The chill was nice, and the wind hit his jacket in gentle breaths.

“It’s like, 1am, dude. And no, I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow because my goddamn boyfriend BROKE UP WITH ME A DAY BEFORE VALENTINE’S!” Foggy shouted angrily into a tired New York. It absorbed Foggy’s rage and a pigeon cooed. Foggy sounded so sad and Matt didn’t like it at all.

“Don’t cry about your ex when you’re on a date, Fogs. That’s just rude.” Matt was still a best friend. And tonight, he wanted to get Foggy’s mind off of what’s-his-face.

“Fine.”

-

Matt was surprisingly good at mini golf, but he was drunk and on a date and he could pretend to be bad for Foggy’s sake. Especially when Foggy gamely fit himself snug behind Matt to correct his posture, laughing at the pair of them.

There was nearly no one else here because even though the sign said 24 hours, there were times when most people do sleep. Even the present personnel were half-gone at their posts.

“No, Matt, keep your knees _bent_ ,” Foggy scolded lightly, knocking his knees behind Matt’s to force them to bend. There were two pairs of hands on the club, and none of them were in the correct position. “And your hands are all over the place!” Foggy laughed, and it was the best laugh because it was a huff of warmth directly to Matt’s ear. “Here, like this.” Heavy, sure hands landed on Matt’s and moved them into a firmer stance.

“And where’s the ball?” Matt asked, smiling too broad. “Am I lined up to the ball?” Matt could tell that he wasn’t. If the sonar and wind couldn’t clue him in, Foggy’s snickering definitely did.

“Yup, buddy, all good to go! Take a swing.” Foggy stepped back and continued his unsubtle giggling.

Matt swung and missed spectacularly.

“I didn’t feel any contact.” Matt frowned and scratched his head theatrically.

“Try it again, then.”

Matt did, missing in a new and even more dramatic way.

“No, Matt, your stance is off, again. Let me show you.” And Foggy moved his warm and steady heat to settle behind Matt again.

When Foggy finally guided Matt’s hands to hit the tiny ball, it knocked against some wood behind the hole.

“Aw, we missed,” Foggy observed, intelligently.

The first hole took another ten strokes, which was frankly ridiculous. Hole three had Matt “accidentally” bump the ball seven times, which meant that he did technically meet par. Hole nine was played with the clubs upside down, and it took an entire hour because they had to pause to share some vodka between Foggy's twentieth and twenty first stroke. Hole fifteen, they did backwards. By hole seventeen, they were just clinging to each other, tripping over each other’s legs and resigning the course to be completed mostly horizontal. 

“Wait,” Matt said on their last hole. He handed Foggy his cane and told him to stay back. “I think I can get this one.”

Foggy laughed brightly. It was such a beautiful sound. “Go for it, buddy.”

For effect, Matt squared up and took deep breaths. He stood with his legs too close together and his hands too far apart and missed.

“No, Matt, we just went over your shitty stance!” Foggy kept laughing and Matt was glad for it.

“Am I hitting the right spot?”

“About four inches in front of you, actually,” Foggy supplied helpfully. “And your stance.”

“Stance, schmance, sure, got it” Matt mocked dismissively as he took care to adjust his knees, his hips, his elbows. He took a deep breath, measured the wind, the grass, and sensed below him for the ball’s weight and place.

And when he swung, it made contact.

And by the sound of Foggy’s cheering, it was pretty epic.

“Dude! A hole in one?! Did you _see_ that? That was amazing!”

"Wait, it went in?" Matt asked with a smug grin on his face, savouring Foggy's praise.

"Sure did, buddy! That's the greatest thing I've ever seen! Holy shit!" Foggy was so happy and awed and it made Matt feel warm all over. "But we should probably head home, now. I think I see the sun."

-

On their way back, Foggy nudged against Matt. Long since sober, but still warm and pliant with fatigue and a periphery hangover. "Thanks, Matt. I really do feel better now." Matt beamed.

They got all the way to their door feeling like it was just any other day, hanging out with a best friend until the wee hours of the morning. Except when Matt jangled the door open, Foggy coughed behind him.

"Since this was technically a date, should I kiss you?" he asked. Matt restrained himself from nodding vigorously and burying his hands in his roommate's hair.

Instead, he tried to smile assuringly, nonchalantly, suavely. "If you want. Gotta complete the night somehow, right?" Matt stood still and faced Foggy for a loaded moment, hand still resting on the door handle.

Foggy laughed nervously before lunging forward and giving Matt the smallest peck on his lips. No heat, no tongue, no wandering hands, but a kiss nonetheless. Matt wanted to giggle. He wanted to cry. He swung the door open harshly and invited Foggy inside.

"What kind of date do you think this was?" Foggy asked, jovial with humor. He yawned, sliding past his friend and entering the space. The man shucked off his coat, shoes, and pants in a well-practiced motion. A moment later, Foggy landed on his bed in a puff of dust and crumbs from who knows where.

Matt sighed, saving his processing the night for another time. By the sound of it, Foggy was already halfway asleep on top of his sheets. Matt washed up and eventually collapsed on his own bed.

"Happy Valentine's," he said lamely, into the unmoving air of the room. He fell asleep to Foggy's disruptively loud snoring.

-

Matt took care to wake up early. He had an idea, even though it probably wasn't that grand. It would make Foggy feel better, though, so Matt figured it was worth it.

While Foggy slumbered like the dead, Matt walked the fifteen minutes to the grocery store. He picked up a few items and walked the fifteen minutes back. Along the way, a few familiar voices said hi, patted him on the back, giggled, teased, and wished him well on his day in a knowing tone. Matt smiled back at them all. For a glorious, pathetic fifteen minutes, he pretended he was doing this, unironically, for a Foggy who would be receptive to it unironically.

Matt bustled around the small dorm, keeping quiet and making sure the curtains were drawn tightly. He hung up decor. He put fake roses in a mug. He set down a box of chocolates and a cheap bottle of red wine on Foggy's desk. He imagined the room, pink and red and pointedly romantic.

It was well past noon by the time Foggy woke up, and Matt was at his desk, reading. Well, his fingers were on some paper but he was really just waiting expectantly.

Foggy groaned to life. "Ugh, what time is it?" he asked.

"According to my watch, it's 12:54 in the afternoon," Matt offered with bated breath, not daring to face his friend.

There was a deafening pause as Foggy shifted upwards.

"Matt, what is all this?" He sounded happy. Matt exhaled his relief.

"Happy Valentine's Day, buddy. I'm a better date than what's-his-name, anywho." Matt told him. "Frankly, you're lucky to have me."

Foggy made his way over to Matt at his desk and kissed his forehead affectionately. Foggy's soured spit rested there and Matt beamed.

"That I am, buddy. You're the best valentine I’ve ever had. Thank you, really." Foggy opened the curtains and the window in their room, and suddenly the lazy chill of the city grew even more alive to Matt. Singing pigeons, yapping dogs, laughing lovers. It was that kind of day.

"It really is nice out today," Foggy sighed. "What do you say I treat you to lunch?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt depression and happy ending chapter

"I love you," Matt whispered, voice ragged and hoarse. He was having trouble breathing and there was nothing for him to sense except blood and pain all around him. He closed his eyes to it. He tried to focus on the more pressing issue. He focused on everything else but his own pain. The sticky cotton of his bed, the heavy footfall of his pacing friend, the crushing weight of rejection.

"Is that the last of it?" Foggy demanded. "Any more secrets I should know about?" Foggy waved impossible shapes into the air, forming an idea, working through an argument. Like he hadn't even heard that last part.

And Matt knew he wouldn’t win this one.

"Let me get this straight," Foggy started at last, voice heavy and cold with resolve. "You only 'see' things in outline, so you decided to put on a costume, run around on rooftops, and fight supervillains?"

Matt had to stop this talk somehow. He felt the need desperately. It was a losing battle. He was a Catholic who relished in violence, a lawyer who worked outside the law, a dead man who refused to stay in the grave. He couldn't explain it.

"I'm an endless contradiction that'd never stand up to cross-examination, Foggy." Matt tried to smile, to get Foggy to see him like he had a million times before. Maybe he would recognize something, then. "Always thought that was part of my charm."

When Foggy didn't reply, Matt tried another angle. "You're my oldest friend, Foggy-"

Foggy shushed him. "Give me a moment, I'm processing."

Obediently, Matt shut up.

"I'm not going to be nice to you."

It broke Matt's heart, but he nodded through the hurt.

"Karen knows. She's our friend and she knows. How long has she known?"

"A while." Matt was already waving his white flag. Foggy was taking it by the wicker pole and cracking it on his knee.

"Anyone else?"

"A few," he admitted. The shame was hitting him, now. The guilt and shame like hot coals placed right on his battered heart.

"And you intentionally kept me in the dark?"

It was a nasty tactic. Leading questions, closed questions. No room for elaboration, explanation.

"Yes."

"And you thought, despite being your _oldest friend_ , that I wouldn't accept you?"

"Foggy-"

"Yes or no, Matt. Is it or isn't it true that you had that little faith in our friendship?"

Matt crumpled in on himself, not being able to answer.

"I love you, Foggy." Matt said it again, hoped Foggy would hear it and understand.

"But you don't trust me." Foggy said it as a statement. He said it despondently, emptily, despairingly. An incontestable fact. "Was anything ever real between us?"

"I didn't want to drag you into this. Not you. Not ever." Matt could feel himself crying now. "I love you." He said it for the third time because Foggy had yet to answer. It was out in the open now, and Foggy refused to touch it. Matt was ready, though. Ready for the bitter, betrayed words, the disgust, the slammed door.

"Matt-"

"I can't argue with you, Foggy. You were always better at debate than I was. I can't. Not with you. But I mean it. I love you. That won't change. I couldn't- I can't lose you. I needed you as far away from all this shit as possible. You're my best friend and I love you. Please, Foggy. Don't leave me."

Foggy sighed and deflated at the foot of the bed. Slowly, he reached into his wallet and pulled something out. He handed it to Matt, a collection of rumpled knots and synthetic fibres stiffened with time. A friendship bracelet.

"You kept this?" Matt asked, genuinely shocked. Foggy ignored him.

"What colour is it?" Foggy asked.

"I don't know." Matt pressed it to his nose and gave it a sniff. It smelled entirely of Foggy and the fine leather of his wallet. "I never knew."

"It's pink. Pink and red. I used to wear it around campus. I got picked on for it, too. Especially since I was always, I don't know, I heard the word 'fruity' a lot? Anyway. People used to tell me how shitty it looked, and they would joke about my wearing it all the time.

"They'd ask if my sister made it for me. And I would say 'no, my friend made it for me. My best friend, Matt. The greatest person I know. My favourite person in the world.' Well, maybe not in those exact words, but people would get it, you know? They'd nod understandingly and I'd get to pretend you were my boyfriend or something. Pathetic, I know.”

Matt took in the information. He didn’t dare speak.

"But you made promises to me, Matt. That we'd be partners. Even if you weren't anything to me other than my friend and prospective business partner, at least I had your honesty. I knew who we were and I liked us together. And now, you're telling me you love me, and I don't know who you are anymore. I don't _know_ you. I never knew you. Not in a way that mattered, anyway. So I guess I'm sorry I couldn't be someone you trusted."

And there it was. Closing argument. The one-two-three combo with the knockout. Foggy's meticulous and calculated point made viscerally, tragically obvious. Matt left speechless in the wake of Foggy's dangerously sharp tongue. It was a familiar feeling.

"I'm sorry." The words were lifeless. Matt was lifeless.

"Okay."

"What else do you want me to say? What do you want to hear? Please, Foggy." The tears didn't stop. Matt clutched the bracelet tighter.

"I don't know. It's not like there's precedent for this sort of thing, now, is there?" Foggy stood up.

"Foggy, don't leave," Matt begged. "Please. I'm sorry."

"Leave it, Matt. Let me think about some things. Maybe don't come into the office next week."

Foggy left the apartment with heavy steps. Foggy left. Matt put on the shitty bracelet, trying to sleep in the quiet room, trying to remember how Foggy used to sound when he would snore next to him. Matt cried and Foggy left.

-

A week passed by and Matt broke his knuckles on supervillains. A week passed by and Matt barely managed to shower. A week passed by and Matt lived in the mask. Karen visited precisely once to make him a warm meal and offer some assurance and Matt hardly said a word to her. 

"Take care of yourself, Matt," she told him, definitively. She guided him to the bathroom where Matt curled up under the running shower and considered staying there forever. She helped him wash his hair and brush his teeth. She washed his rancid sheets for him. She held him for a long time.

"Has he mentioned me?" Matt asked, buried in Karen's arms.

"Just focus on yourself right now, buddy," she deflected.

When she left, the apartment was cleaner, but so much emptier. More traces of Foggy were washed away, and soon there would be nothing left.

-

"Matt?" Foggy called into the apartment on the Friday. Too loud. "Shit," Foggy whispered. He was juggling some plastic bags in his arms and he shifted them around to get his keys. Matt remained immobile.

The door opened with a dusty creak. Foggy walked trepidatiously into the space, setting things down at the dining table. "Matt? Are you in here? I brought you food."

Matt grumbled loud enough to let Foggy know he was alive. Foggy followed the noise to the bedroom.

"Jesus Christ, Matt. Is this how you've been living for the past week?"

Matt didn't answer.

"Karen told me to check up on you," Foggy explained. "I got you some dinner. Come outside."

Matt didn't move. He fought the urge to cry. As much as Matt missed him, there was something even worse about being hit with the sheer _presence_ of Foggy. Foggy, crisp in a suit, freshly showered, warm and well fed. Foggy who didn't need Matt. Not like Matt needed Foggy. He made his way over to the bed. Softly, he sat down next to Matt and helped him sit up.

When Foggy sighed, Matt felt the air hit his face, and the life in his breath was so enticing. Matt craved it. With tender fingers, Foggy reached through the space between them and removed the mask on Matt's face. The touch was too much. It warmed Matt, it burned him.

Matt imagined himself then, unmasked, and suddenly felt so small and inadequate. The muss of his hair, his unshaven face, the red rim of his tired and miserable eyes. Foggy, in contrast, with his innocence and vivacity. 

Carefully, Matt stretched his arms toward the other body and held on as tightly as he dared. He wrapped himself up in the memory of his best friend. And still, his throat failed him.

"Hey, Matty. Why don't we eat?" Foggy carefully extricated himself from Matt and Matt immediately missed the warmth.

They ate in silence. Matt was awash with longing and absence, measuring the distance between him and Foggy. Four feet. Four entire feet.

"So," Foggy said as he put down his spoon. Matt chewed deliberately, blinked slowly. "I've given it all some thought." Matt continued to chew. Held onto the food in his mouth like his life depended on it, like it would be the last thing Foggy ever shared with him. "Maybe I should have given you more of a chance to explain yourself. I'm sorry." He heard the trace of Karen's influence. Thank God for her.

Matt swallowed. "Okay."

"Go ahead, then."

Matt fought to form the words. All the eloquence of his youth left him. There was nothing left but the raw, pathetic truth. "I never even told my dad about the senses, Foggy. It had nothing to do with how much I cared. How much I care."

He felt the brush of Foggy's hair in the air as he nodded.

"It felt like something private, you know? Something separate from my real life. Something where I felt powerful and free and _able_ and I couldn't express it anywhere else."

"So getting yourself hurt repeatedly felt _better_ than your real life? Your life with me?"

"In certain ways, yes. You knew me, that was all real, too. And I'm grateful for it. And knowing how you saw me, as someone mild-mannered, sweet, and smart, it felt better that way. I didn't want your impression of me to change. But there were parts of me I couldn't ignore, too. Anger at all this _shit_ in the city. I didn't want you to see that. I didn’t want you to see me angry and violent."

Foggy nodded again, considering. "How much do you know, Matt? What do you pick up on?"

Matt sighed, trying to pick somewhere to begin. "There's a woman crying today. Four blocks north. She's high on heroin and I think her kid just died."

"Jesus Christ."

"There's someone being mugged, maybe another block beyond that. They have guns but I don't think he realizes it yet. And even farther than that, there's a group, maybe five people, planning to rob a bank next Tuesday."

"Holy shit. You can know all that?" Foggy sat back, awed and horrified.

"Yeah. That's just in one direction. There’s more. A lot more." Matt shivered.

Foggy breathed. He breathed so loudly in the absence of words. He breathed shallow and panicked. Matt was scaring him. Matt felt the urge to jump out the window and feel the glass on his skin.

"It's not your responsibility, Matt. You don't have to break your body like this."

"And what, Foggy? Leave them all to hurt? If you can stop it, even a little, wouldn't you?" Matt was pleading again, asking in no uncertain words for Foggy to really _see_ him. To know him.

"We're lawyers, Matt. That's what we do. But we do it _legally_. We do it without spilling more blood on the streets."

"It doesn't save all of them. It can't. That's not how it works."

"Fine, hero. Point taken. I cede."

Matt let out his breath, relieved.

"So I have your blessing?"

"When have you ever asked for my blessing doing anything?" Foggy scoffed, still an exposed wire with this paradigm shift.

"It would put me at ease." Matt said it honestly. "You're my best friend." The air was thick again.

"I can't approve of any of this. You have to know that." Foggy said, finally. "You're my best friend, too, you dick. I would vastly prefer if you wouldn't beat yourself up thinking you owe the world anything because I'd rather you live long enough to see me old." Matt opened his mouth. "Shut up." Foggy countered. "I don't want you to die. Can you promise me that whatever you do, you'll be careful?" Foggy begged. 

Matt frowned.

Slowly, Foggy crossed the distance between them and knelt before Matt's slumped form, like a prayer.

Carefully, Foggy took Matt's bruised and bleeding hands in his and turned them over, tracing gentle fingers over his. For the first time in a long time, Matt felt contact, real contact, and he yearned for more. He felt Foggy's face, wet from quiet tears, and took the information in preciously, jealously, desperately.

Foggy turned his lips into the touch and kissed Matt's calloused palms, soft as a whisper. He kept kissing Matt gently as if those hands were his only tether to the living world.

"Is it okay that I still love you?" Foggy asked.

Matt simply dragged Foggy closer and hugged him tightly. He allowed himself this indulgence. He feared it more than anything, but he indulged.

"Foggy, You're the world," Matt confessed. "Will you kiss me?"

"On one condition."

"Anything.”

"Let me in," Foggy requested. He breathed it like a relieved sigh against Matt's ear. "Be honest from now on. I want to know you."

"Okay," promised Matt. He didn't know if he could keep it, but if it meant Foggy would be there, he'd try. On God, he would try until it destroyed him. "God, I've missed you."

Foggy kisses him, finally, with earnest lips. They melt into each other and let themselves be known.

-

The offices of Nelson and Murdock are a dynamic workplace. Sometimes, the esteemed Mr. Franklin “Foggy” Nelson comes in with bags under his eyes the size of entire canyons, looking just as hollow, jittery on his third cup of coffee by nine in the morning. Sometimes the esteemed Mr. Matthew “Matt” Murdock comes in with bruised knuckles and a turtleneck. Sometimes the partners can be heard yelling at each other from the hallway. Often, one of them is fired, only to return to his desk less than a month later. Never a dull moment.

These things would be concerning to the casual viewer. These things ought to be alarm bells, 911 calls, marriage counselling. Except, even at their worst and most wired, Nelson and Murdock could be seen performing small acts of service for each other, softly brushing their fingers together, whispering assurances to each other, and, on more than one occasion, hugging deeply in the men’s room, much to the embarrassment of several employees. They hold hands under tables in the meeting rooms, and they lean on each other when one or the other seems tired and fit to collapse.

Often, Mr. Nelson could be found hiding a smile behind a secretive hand while his partner trounces around the courtroom with a particular cocksure showmanship. In turn, Mr. Murdock would lean back and smile softly to himself during the same proceedings, listening to Mr. Nelson make his point with a gentle and authoritative confidence, leaving the truth out bare and obvious.

Eventually, the employees have come to realize that whatever strife their bosses would be facing, they’re doing it together. And that’s a fact that doesn’t seem to be ready to change any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> All I write is kinda sad Murdock. Oops. Have another. Keep having them until Matt makes some serotonin of his own.


End file.
